


don't be afraid, to get carried away

by leolot



Series: words that i'd like to use [2]
Category: No Fandom
Genre: Angst, Multi, Other, Vent fiction, first person POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 08:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30119784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leolot/pseuds/leolot
Summary: pleasantries (with your lover)good morning to a new day.
Relationships: Original Character/Original Charater
Series: words that i'd like to use [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2216586





	1. make it sweet so they don't leave you

There are times where a sudden pain rings out. Not in the way it rings through your ear, and leaves the chaos it brought inside before leaving forever.

It’s the type that sings at you briefly, like a humming siren who only hums for her own enjoyment. It is its own sort of cruelty and it stings hard. When I felt the brush of fabric over the scar that healed itself months and months ago, it’s sudden and it makes me frown. It’s like when I started seeing the same scene play out, with only the slightest bit of pain in the beginning before it fleshed out. It spread upon parts where I hadn’t realized it would spread, at some point during the time where the burn first made its way onto my skin, I thought it would’ve spread up to my cheeks that were tear-ridden.

  
Is it called phantom pain? Or is it too severe to call it that, is there a official diagnosis to an imaginary pain running its fingers onto your thigh while you have tears in your eyes as it burns you?   
Or is it something else?

Is it a sort of thing that only medically informed people know of? If that is so, then do their own scars burn them too? Do they feel a sharp pain before you start to break and crumble downwards? When you spiral down, is there someone to catch you when you fall? 

  
Questions like these are what roamed through my mind, not at the event of where I had that burning scar engraved into my body like a tattoo, but only questions that lingered afterwards. Only questions that lingered and never really answer.


	2. hungover in the city of dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead of the romantic, lovingly touches of a butterfly, it’s one that is poisonous that when it caress your guts it makes you feel dizzy in the head. 
> 
> The way it grips a tight hold on your lungs as you resist the urge to vomit and slip into a coma. 

Year after year, month after month, a day after a day.

Countless thoughts thrive in the middle of mine like a parasite that relies on a system just to live. It thrives on my own system of misery that constantly slip in, it never truly goes away. There are speeches of which have moved me, there are fictional works that have made me tear up and cry in the middle of the night just reading them, there are inspirations that make me go wide-eyed in complete adoration.

Then there is the constant ignorance that I try every time to seal away the reality that persists against the wall of my mind, of the parasite that thrive on the misery I supply it. At first I thought that they were a salvation, something to supply something other than misery. Eventually there has been a longing for anew, and the same cycle that happens every so often starts up again.

It’s gear works creak of old age, and it never dies off. I try to cover my ears, my mouth, my nose and yet it pours out. It comes in sobs, sniffles and it comes with tears that roll down my cheeks that were wet already with the salty excess of water that slipped its way out of the folds of my eyes. I stare at a couple of things, I stare so hard but it never ever helps me get out of it.

“Will there be a day where I eventually do not have to cover my every nostril, eye, and my ears in order to stop weeping?” I ask so often but there never truly is an answer, maybe it’s because nobody has the answer for it. I never have the answer for it because nobody cares enough to give me an answer that matters. Will there be a day that i will have an answer? will there be a day where i have an answer that i can understand, and that i relate to? in the future, maybe.   
But at present I do not have one.

“But do you have a present?” They ask, and I stare at them in the eyes.

I eventually look aside to the left of them, I frantically look at anywhere except their eyes. I can’t look at them in the eyes because it scares me, it makes me cringe against the feeling of their eyes over my face. They have not felt the same pain as I did, they have not felt the exact emotion I went through that situation, they did not go through the tunneling mind process of something that hurts you from within and from the outside.

They bring up a hand and I try to take it, slipping my fingers in between of the cracks of theirs. Feeling the warmth travel through our hands and the coldness of their nails as they curl up against my palm. The back of my hand felt shaky, and the inside of my palms sweat at the feeling of something touching, caressing, and feeling. It’s a feeling I miss, and one I wish to have. I don’t want to flinch at the feeling of it, but as they whisper against the inside of my ear I feel the present time slipping in.

“Have you even ever asked for something like this?” And they loom over me, their height reaching standards beyond and my insides clench. It clenches in a way that you feel when you are sick, when you want to vomit in a way that you are ill with the butterflies inside of your stomach.

  
Instead of the romantic, lovingly touches of a butterfly, it’s one that is poisonous that when it caress your guts it makes you feel dizzy in the head. The way it grips a tight hold on your lungs as you resist the urge to vomit and slip into a coma. 

  
“No,” A weak reply comes from me, and I stare at the middle of their eyes. Their nose, is it a nose? They breathe and I felt the brush of air that puffs from a living, human being.

  
Not every living being has to be human though, but not every human is ever living correctly.

**Author's Note:**

> this work is more or less an entirety of first person views!


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